


My Mistress' Eyes

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: F/M, John thinking he's Sherlock, Love Poems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 01:29:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8308453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'Can I request an imagine where one of the boys leaves dirty notes for the reader every where and she gets really embarrassed about who's been writing them? Preferably SFW thank u'. Here you go, anon. Someone's leaving dodgy poems around the reader's flat, and, worse, John thinks he's the world's greatest detective. No, not Batman. The other one.





	

“ _What the fuck is this?!_ ”

“What a ladylike lady, like,” John says flatly, and then jolts away as you throw the paper at his head. “Whoa! Love, calm down, your time of the month lasts _years_ …”

“John Winston Lennon, I know you wrote this, because you are an uncultured little _swine_ ,” you hiss at him, and he gestures to himself, faux-shocked.

“Uncultured? _Moi_?” He grabs the piece of paper, and then beams. “Wow, love. I’m honoured you think this is me.” His brow furrows. “I can spell better than that. Mostly.” Paul leans over from where he’s perched on the back of the sofa, and you snatch the note back, flushing.

“That was a dirty poem!” Paul chirps, eyes lit up. “Who’s been writin’ you dirty poems?!”

“I don’t _know_!” you snap, and Paul grins.

“Ey. They were right on about your legs though…”

* * *

“ _There’s another one_!”

John’s voice peals through the flat, and you groan. Secretly, you wonder why you keep inviting these morons back.

“(Y/N), look!” He walks in – wearing boots on your nice clean floor, you note. “Look, it’s a poem about yer tits. Well, it’s not, it’s about yer… I’m gonna say that word there’s divine on account of yer ‘divided cleavage’ being a scary thought, an’ all…” You snatch the piece of paper, and John sits opposite you, dark eyes wide. “It’s not me, love. I’d be open with yeh.” He winks. “Unless yeh want it to be.”

You read the poem, and flush, before tearing it up. It’s very flattering, you guess, if a little impolite.

“Where was it?” you ask, and he grins.

“It was in yer knicker drawer.” You briefly debate stabbing him. “Only joking, love. It was in yer kitchen, next to yer kettle. Who’s been around but me?” He kicks his shoes off, and crosses his legs. “I’m interested, love.”

“George came around yesterday,” you muse quietly. “He was in there for about twenty minutes making a cuppa when Ringo arrived to pick him up… uh… Paul was there the day before, but I make a cup of tea every morning…”

“Hmm… could’ve not noticed it. George or Paul… poets,” John grins, stroking his smooth chin. He’s so fluffy right now – you wonder how someone who looks like a giant puppy could have such a terrible brain. “ _Filth_ poets.”

“Why are you in my house?” you ask, and he grins.

“I’m helpin’ yeh, (Y/N)!” He muses. “Well, Paul’s got a bit of a poof tendency towards poetry.”

“You’re a songwriter,” you say, and he looks at you. “Also, you write poetry.”

“Yeah, but when I do it it’s… it’s like Lord Byron. Not this stuff.” He throws the paper at you. “Now. Let’s figure this out.” He catches you staring. “What?”

“How do _you_ know about Lord Byron?”

 

“… _and your…_ does that say ‘tender’ or ‘tenner’…”

You catch Paul with the next one, and Ringo glances up as if caught with a biscuit he wasn’t supposed to have taken from the pantry.

“ _What?!_ ” you snap, and Paul grins.

“Your suitor’s struck again, pet!” he cackles, and flutters those long, dark lashes at you. “It’s lovely poetry. If not a little dirty. Do nice girls do this kind of thing?” You snatch the poem up and read through it.

“Sometimes, if it’s your birthday,” you mutter.

“(Y/N), that’s very… _modern_ of you.” Paul whistles. “Ringo, what do you think?” Ringo’s a bit flushed, and you realise that all the men in your life – at least, the important ones – are now picturing the contents of those notes about you.

“Ringo, do _not_ answer. Paul, I swear to god… where was it?”

“Not sure but Ringo was picking it off his shoe when I came in,” Paul grins, and you groan, before shoving the poem into your pocket. You feel so flustered, and Ringo reaches out.

“It’s alright, love,” he says awkwardly. “Who do you reckon it is?”

* * *

“Hey, love.”

George’s voice is low next to your ear, and you jump – he and John have been out on your balcony smoking a joint and playing guitar for nigh on three hours, and you’d honestly wondered if they’d fallen off.

“I found another poem, but I don’ reckon yeh want John knowing.” He shoves a yellow piece of paper into your hand, and you read it quickly. “…is that true, like?” You read through it.

“Which bit?”

“Any, but mostly the bit about yer chest heavin’, like.” He shrugs. “Just from a scientific point of view…” You grumble, and he shrugs again. “Worth asking…”

“Ah- _hah_!” John sweeps in and plucks the poem from your hands. “We have another _clue_! George, lad, you’ve been spotted at the scene of the crime, like, ah-hah.” George closes his eyes and mutters ‘give me strength’. “That’s not yer handwriting.” You snatch it back, and John grabs for it. “Gimme it!”

“No!” you snap, and he backs off, sulking. “If none of you can come out and say it to my face, I’ll find out who it is myself.” John pouts, and you tilt your head. “Now, are you ever going to go _home_?”

* * *

You stare at the note board. They’ve not started recording yet, and you’re not a wife or a girlfriend, so you figure you’ve got a little time to check out handwritings. Part of you wants to tell John you’re grateful for the idea, but something says that inflating any part of the Lennon ego will end tragically.

“Not John,” you say, a little relieved, finding a note requesting that Brian ‘be banned from the studio for fairying up the place’. You go to take it down, embarrassed in case the rather kind Mr. Epstein sees it, only to see that Brian has replied with a note stating that John is the one responsible. Children, you sigh, and then test it against Brian’s handwriting. You really, really didn’t think it would match, for obvious reasons, and it doesn’t. Well, that’s… something.

“Ey, love.”

“Oh!” you gasp, and Ringo smiles at you from the doorway. He raises a note.

“Uh… your admirer’s struck again.” He pads over, and hands you the note, and you read it, grimacing. It’s actually… really sweet. No sexual references at all, and a rather lovely part about your eyes being the flowers of spring. Or powers of string. You’re not sure, but it’s quite touching. “Guess he’s changed his tactic?” He leans over to the board. “Paulie wrote that note there…” You check. Not him. “No luck?”

“I just want to know. I mean… I’d be more flattered if they’d just kiss me or something. John’s started quoting these things,” you grumble, and he sighs, and leans across. “Who’s that?”

“Geo. But you might punch them,” he replies, and you sigh.

“I’d rather be kissed than have graphic poetry written about me-”

Ringo’s lips are on yours before you’ve even finished speaking, and your legs go weak – your heart pounds – if fireworks went off behind your eyes you wouldn’t feel more clichéd. Your eyes open wide, and you see his are shut, but after a moment sapphire shines out from below the lid, and your eyes close into the kiss.

“…wow,” you say weakly, and he shrugs, blushing.

“I thought you’d think it was arty,” he mumbles, and you stare at him. “…it’s not great, like…” You blush, and then sigh.

“Okay. Rule one… no more poetry. The last one was actually pretty good,” you say, begrudgingly. “Secondly, you tell the others. And you make the explanation good.” He looks away, cheeks dull red, and you reach out. “Three. Kiss me like that again?”

He turns back to you, looking stunned, and as you kiss him again, you can’t help but giggle, and he smiles, a little relieved, as his arms slide around your waist.

“…what on earth is a ‘divided cleavage’?”


End file.
